To Save a Life
by The Assassin's Pen
Summary: For once, Christine shows up on Stephen's doorstep needing his help. One shot, Christine x Stephen friendly. Comfort centric.


Fluff and cuddling and heartbeats are important, okay?

* * *

"Christine?" Stephen blinked, his hand resting on the door of the sanctum as he stared at her in surprise. His cloak hovered behind him, peering over one shoulder like it was just as baffled as he was. She never showed on his step, not unless he'd called her, so having her there was an uncommon surprise. It would have been a pleasant one too, if she hadn't so clearly been crying.

"Hi, Stephen," she said, giving him a pinched smile and looking at her feet. She sniffed, rubbing a hand across her eyes before glancing at him again. "Can—can I come in?" She was still in her scrubs, nothing but a worn hoodie to defend against the early spring chill. They'd barely gotten out of February and even though flowers were trying to sprout in central park, New York was still frigid most days.

"Yeah, yeah of course," he said, shaking off his shock and stepping aside. The cloak swept out of the way and he shut the door behind her, twitching to touch her and stopping himself at the last minute. He closed his hand and rubbed his fingers together, wishing the old habits he'd had when they were together weren't so difficult to break. He watched her stand in his foyer, looking almost as lost as the first time she'd been there.

"You can come all the way in, Christine," he teased gently, moving around her to get a better look at her face. "My house, your house, you know how it goes."

She still had her arms crossed like she was cold, and the cloak swept around and settled on her. She startled but didn't shake the enchanted garment off.

"Okay but does this qualify as a house or do you live in a museum with a pet cloak?" she challenged, shrugging her shoulders a little. "Just saying."

"This is the building inside which I forget to wash my socks and stay up too late reading, so I'd say it's my house. And it's not a pet. It's a powerful relic that's saved my life several times."

"Yeah, so you keep telling me but you do pet it."

He chuckled, but the tear tracks on her face still concerned him. "Come on, let's get you some tea or something."

A little while later and Christine was curled up in Stephen's chair beneath the massive window bubbling out of the sanctum's roof. She cradled a steaming cup of tea between her hands and the cloak had transitioned from being a cloak to being a blanket heavy across her lap. Stephen got up from his kneeling position by the fire he'd just kindled and brushed his hands off, setting the poker aside. Slowly, his elegant figure highlighted by the firelight, he turned towards her with a furrowed brow.

"Christine," he said softly. "You know I'm always glad to see you, but what's is this about?"

She stared into her tea for a long time and wouldn't answer him. Stephen, having learned much better how to be patient, went closer and sat on the footstool, leaning on his knees and lacing his fingers together. It hurt him to see her like this, and eventually he couldn't stand doing nothing and reached out to squeeze her fingers gently.

"I lost one, today," she said eventually, her voice barely a whisper.

Stephen's heart clenched and he swallowed, bowing his head slightly in respect. "I'm so sorry, Christine."

He was a doctor too, and even though he was known for his success stories he'd lost people. Most of the time you cried a little and you detached. It was a job. You couldn't get attached or it destroyed you and you couldn't continue in the profession. You just couldn't.

He let a long sigh out through his nose and got up, his movements slow and cautious just in case Christine didn't want what he offered.

"May I?" he asked, stopping next to the chair and resting his hand on the arm. She sniffed and wiped a tear away, nodding and shifting up so he could sit down. When he was seated, he carefully wrapped an arm around her waist and brought her back into the chair so she was cradled against him, her feet hanging over the arm. The cloak hesitated only a moment and then draped across her again.

Very, very carefully he rest his arm across her and ran his fingers along her silky hair. He let out a little breath when she burrowed into his chest voluntarily, a rush of emotions making him blink away memories.

"What was different, about this one?" he asked softly. She curled her hand in his tunic, stroking the folded edges as she stared at his chest. Her fingers made gentle lines across his body, tracing the elaborate stitching on his new tunic.

"She was nine," she said finally, her voice breaking on the last word. Stephen closed his eyes and his grip tightened on her.

He didn't say he was sorry. There was no point. It wouldn't fix anything. They were both sorry—the girl was still dead.

"I had to tell her father that we did everything we could, even while I wondered if that was a lie."

"It wasn't," Stephen said firmly. "You did everything you could. I know you did. You've never done anything less, even with a case that fought you tooth and nail."

She huffed, resting her hand finally next to her head, closing her eyes as she listened to the deep, warm sound of his heart where it lay safe and undamaged thanks to her. "You did fight me."

He dared to press a kiss to her hair and rest his cheek on her head. "And you saved me anyway."

She gave a shaky sigh and lifted her head only long enough to tuck her hand beneath it, resting across the place she knew his scar lingered. "I tried, Stephen."

He cupped her cheek and gently coaxed her to look at him. "You did, Christine." He pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead and her eyes fluttered closed. She burrowed in under his jaw and sighed, some of the tension leaving her body even if the grief still hung on her.

Stephen held her long past dawn, letting her sleep and watching the spring rain mist against the window.


End file.
